


Aziraphale and the Very Bad Day

by Jaydeun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A rota of umbrellas, Comfort, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, bad day, raining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 10:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: Even angels have bad days. Luckily, his demon knows just what to do.





	Aziraphale and the Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/gifts), [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).

Aziraphale turned down Brewer street and made his slow way along in sodden shoes. The rain stopped falling twenty minutes ago. Now it just hovered in the air, a milling crowd of droplets without the good manners to fall down or dry up. Crowley would say it was “Londoning.” And of course, Crowley would not be standing in it, with pant legs stained to the ankle and bespattered by passing cars.

Aziraphale didn’t hate rain. He didn’t hate anything, not _really_. (Except marmite. And Gabriel, a little.) It was his own fault, of course it was. That business with an elder woman and her over-turned trolley, the colicky child in the lap of a distressed new mother, the bicycle tire, the broken lift, the near miss of a pedestrian crossing the street… He’d been so distracted, that he missed the bus. A drip of water slid from plastered curls right down the side of his nose and he shivered unpleasantly. _That’s what you get_, Crowley would say, _no good deed goes unpunished_.

Normally, Aziraphale just huffed at such things. _Stuff and nonsense._ Besides, he could stand a walk, he thought. Of course, that was before it began raining. Angels didn’t control the rain. Demons didn’t either, even if Crowley took credit for every storm-induced power outage. They _could_ miracle suitable rain gear; Aziraphale had chosen a delightful tartan golf umbrella. But then a woman and her shopping had none, and he couldn’t just leave her to be soaked. He gave it away. Miracled a pale blue one instead. And—well. Gave that away, too. By the time he’d got to the floral one, he decided to hail a cab. That really did take miracles in London, and he meant to jump into the first one to stop… Except a man with a briefcase jumped in ahead of him. _Thank you!_ He said, and Aziraphale mumbled _your welcome_ instead of cursing a hole in his shoe (he did still remember how to).

“Jerk!” a woman also waiting for a cab had shouted after the taxi drove away, and in sympathetic agreement, Aziraphale gave her the last umbrella. That was several blocks ago. And in all that time, no one had offered _him _an umbrella, despite the fact that water streaked his coat, slid round his collar, leaked into his vest and squished into both socks. His nose and ears were cold, and probably red. Aziraphale sniffed miserably. His corporation was going to end up with a cold, and in a fit of discontent he may very well _let_ it.

His spirits didn’t lift until he saw the bookshop. Lights warmed the windows. _Crowley is home_, he thought with a flutter. They didn’t live together—well, not quite—and there was always a chance he’d be away. In any case, the thrill of finding him there, waiting, sent a welcome rush to the pit of his stomach.

The door opened with the jingle of his newly acquired bell. Inside it smelled of woodsmoke and tea, warm leather and old paper, and _Crowley_. Azirapahle breathed it in...and shed water onto the rug.

“You took a while getting back, angel—” Crowley rounded the corner from the back room and stopped mid-sentence. After a split second adjusting to what must be a _truly _bedraggled picture, he rushed forward, waving away drips of water as he went. “What _happened_ to you?”

“I—well—I—” Aziraphale frowned. “I’ve had a _miserable _day, Crowley!” He hadn’t meant to start there. He hadn’t meant to follow it with a litany of complaints, or how his oxfords would be ruined even after re-miracling because shoe leather was very miracle resistant, wasn’t it? Crowley didn’t remonstrate. In fact, he didn’t even finish drying Aziraphale out; he just began patiently unwinding him from all his sopping garments. Top coat and waistcoat, first, then slim fingers working the buttons of his shirt.

“I gave away the umbrellas,” Aziraphale whispered meekly.

“Of course you did.” Crowley slid the clammy shirt from Aziraphale’s shoulders. He loosened his belt next and Aziraphale wriggled a bit closer. At the moment, Crowley’s skin was warmer than his own. A little radiant bubble of just right. His trousers sank to the floor.

“And then someone took my taxi,” Aziraphale said as Crowley guided him into a fluffy white robe he’d pulled from the ether.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find out who. He won’t know what hit his stock profile.” Crowley walked him toward the back room sofa, where a fire was crackling merrily. Once he’d managed to settle Aziraphale into the cushions, he took each of his cold feet and rubbed them warm with his hands before snugging them into bedroom slippers. Aziraphale had stopped speaking, though he could hear the happy knock of his heartbeat. Crowley hummed to himself as he busied about, towel in hand. He lovingly ruffled Aziraphale’s white curls, giving his scalp a good massage with his fingertips.

“You know I like that,” Aziraphale murmured.

“I do,” Crowley agreed, kissing his forehead. “Stay here.”

Aziraphale sunk further into the sofa and extended both feet toward the fire. His mind swum about, tingling from Crowley’s attention. He would have protested once. Would have told him not to make a fuss. He knew better, now.

“Tea?” he asked hopefully when Crowley returned with a mug, piping hot.

“Erm, mostly,” Crowley winked and turned the angel-wing handles out (so Aziraphale wouldn’t burn his fingers). “Got a bit of whiskey in there, too.”

“And honey?”

“Always honey.”

Aziraphale let the steam bathe his face, breathing in the smoky scent of single malt mingling with Earl Grey. Then he looked up at Crowley. He had dispensed with his day clothes, but had opted for flannel over silk—because he knew Aziraphale preferred the feel. Red hair flopped to one side of a sideways smile.

“Budge over, love,” he said, and Aziraphale happily obliged. Soon, two long arms snaked about him, and he lay warm and soft in a nest of Crowley. A soft kiss pressed to his temple, and the gramophone began playing Mozart. Aziraphale sipped his tonic in the pleasant warmth of everything safe and right and good.

“I suppose everyone has a bad day once in a while?” he asked, leaning his head back into the crook of Crowley’s shoulder.

“S’pose, angel,” Crowley soothed, stroking his arm. Aziraphale set the mug aside so he could cuddle closer. The firelight made a halo about them, and his limbs felt heavy and warm.

“Crowley, dearest?” he asked, as his eyelids dropped lower. “If every bad day ended like this, I think I’d have more of them.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand and kissed his knuckles, each in turn. And really, what more was there to say?


End file.
